


Sacrament

by Weconqueratdawn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, BAMF Will Graham, Body Worship, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Dom/sub Undertones, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trapped In Elevator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2016-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-15 18:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8067562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Weconqueratdawn/pseuds/Weconqueratdawn
Summary: What if Hannibal finds actually living with his love for Will is beyond him? Will can only wait for so long before he forces Hannibal’s hand. Or, a very Hannigram argument in an elevator.
Early birthday fic for wraithsonwings, who prompted “Hannibal and Will get stuck in an elevator"

  Not unusually, Will awakes in Hannibal’s bed. At his side, the sheets are empty and cool, slung carelessly back. Will stretches and contemplates the smooth slide of cotton so fine it could almost be silk. No matter in which bed he begins each day, the world he wakens in is not his own. It is an empty existence, filled only with incidentals - fine linen, custom-made clothing, vintage wines. Beautiful apartments and luxury resorts. Cocktail parties, dinners, and gala openings.


  He lives this life deliberately, and allows himself to be dragged round society’s gatherings, dressed and approved by Hannibal. It is a choice he makes every morning. Because he understands something about Hannibal now, something new. Something which Will has wrought upon him.


  Hannibal is hiding; from himself and from Will.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wraithsonwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/gifts).



> Written as one-shot in the same universe as [Sacrifice](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7813618).
> 
> Happy birthday, [wraithsonwings](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wraithsonwings/pseuds/wraithsonwings)! Hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> Thanks to lordofthelesbians for beta <3

Not unusually, Will awakes in Hannibal’s bed. At his side, the sheets are empty and cool, slung carelessly back. Will stretches and contemplates the smooth slide of cotton so fine it could almost be silk. No matter in which bed he begins each day, the world he wakens in is not his own. It is an empty existence, filled only with incidentals - fine linen, custom-made clothing, vintage wines. Beautiful apartments and luxury resorts. Cocktail parties, dinners, and gala openings.

He lives this life deliberately, and allows himself to be dragged round society’s gatherings, dressed and approved by Hannibal. It is a choice he makes every morning. Because he understands something about Hannibal now, something new. Something which Will has wrought upon him.

Hannibal is hiding; from himself and from Will.

*

The door opens and in comes the breakfast tray, carried and prepared by Hannibal. There is a newspaper, a French press, eggs, assorted meats and breads. Will has begun to half-expect a little vase with a single flower, but the theme has not yet reached its natural conclusion. When it does, the gesture will be just as barren as the rest.

Hannibal settles on the edge on the bed, tray balanced on his knee, and Will sits up to receive it.

It is a routine, a neat piece of domestic choreography; something purely performed, not lived. Hannibal has, after all, made sure that cannot happen. 

Sometimes he stays while Will eats and they talk, perhaps about the newspaper, perhaps about the previous night or the night coming. Mostly, the tray is delivered and Hannibal observes its acceptance, then leaves.

This morning, Will eats alone again. In this life, he has plenty of time to think.

*

The noise of conversation in the gallery rises to elaborately moulded ceilings and echoes down empty marbled halls. Will focuses hard on the crystal stem of glass between his fingers, and tunes it out. He is practiced at this. Everything unpleasant is moved aside, swept under the carpet, until it is necessary to examine it.

His perception, controlled and shackled, is now useful in unexpected ways. Details emerge brighter and clearer than ever before, things for his remarkable intuition to latch onto. Now, he sees an especially brittle socialite re-entering the throng. As she draws near, her expression evolves from flat despair to desperate determination to charmingly vacant. Will toys with the idea of befriending her, ready for an introduction to Hannibal, before deciding against it. Hannibal’s particular brand of assistance could suit her but he has enough distractions for the present.

Hannibal, naturally, is surrounded by devoted followers to his latest cult of personality. Will watches from a deliberate distance. If any of them are invited for dinner, they will meet Will’s judgement there and that is the way he prefers it.

Tonight, they leave without firm plans for their next engagement, but Hannibal is nevertheless satisfied. He has had a pleasant evening; his ego has been suitably indulged. Here he is still the laughing devil, playing tricks and mocking mortals; his godhood undisputed.

*

Will hasn't identified the precise moment Hannibal understood this was as chimerous as anything his patients had brought to him. Even on the cliff, in their moment of shattering honesty, he still believed in it, and afterwards too. Probably it is unsurprising that surviving that fall would feed those self-beliefs. A monster so unique, the ocean itself would not drown it.

It came later, much later. The business of healing and escaping had been concluded, and their only concern was how and where to live. Their days passed slowly and in each other’s company, adrenaline-free and increasingly intimate. There was much to negotiate, and to avoid. Once this had occurred, a terrible truth was exposed.

Gods do not love. Not quietly, with tenderness and sincerity. They do not seek the warmth of their beloved in the night, nor do they smile at them when waking. Gods do not, and cannot, belong to anyone but themselves.

Slowly, this dilemma crept up on Hannibal. Killing could be relinquished, if necessary, but further than this Hannibal struggled to go. Supremacy is his cornerstone, the root of his self. It could not be abandoned without significant risk. Unable to relinquish it but equally unable to restrain his need for Will, a silent bargain was struck. Hannibal cloaked himself once more in the familiar, and continued to tell himself fictions. Will remained by his side, beloved still but distantly so, like a beautiful painting. 

Will mutely observed his old habits return, one by one. For a few brief weeks Hannibal had been happy with only Will's company and an upright piano. Now there was opera, openings, dinners. Society. A multitude of amusements and opportunities. God returned to the comfort of his stage, and Will let him go.

*

Their penthouse is in an old and stately building, set apart from the sparkling new skyscrapers most of their acquaintances are drawn from. From the lobby, a private elevator, furnished with art deco filigree and plush carpet, leads only to their door. 

In its discreet space, Will kisses him. Hannibal stands reverently still and allows it. Will knows he is soaking in every detail, each nuance, to preserve in the secluded safety of his palace. There is another locked door to be found there, now. Will makes guesses at what is kept behind it - the arch of his back as Hannibal enters him, and the shape of his name on Will's lips. Or his face crumpled in sleep at dawn; his frown as he reads, squinting in sunlight, on the terrace.

Hannibal finds his love is easier to bear that way - hidden, a treasured secret. And Will lives a half-life, part-imprisoned in shadowy halls and shared memories, wandering its corridors alone. Frequently, he dreams of meeting Hannibal there but finds he cannot speak. They regard each other silently, until Hannibal turns away and, in the blink of an eye, is gone.

His lips against Will’s are warm and dry. One hand cups on the back of neck, the other rests lightly at his waist. Hannibal pulls back and regards him, blank and watchful.

The elevator stops, and the doors open. They go inside to bed.

*

By degrees, Hannibal had refocused his obsession, until it returned to that sharp, cold beam of old, magnified and unwavering. Seeking to cut with precision, to take Will apart once more. To burrow inside and tip him towards Hannibal’s design.

When it finally happened, and Will broke as Hannibal intended, Will could only feel numb relief. It was done, at last. Afterwards, Hannibal’s fleeting embrace on the cold bathroom floor was everything Will had left, and he clung to it. The final line was crossed, and there was nowhere else to go but further and deeper.

Now Will learns the edges of himself anew. With blood spilled by his own hands there is colour again, life has texture. His guilt is sour and his triumph sweet - he suffers and endures for Hannibal, for himself, and savours it. Though he hates that this is how Hannibal will let himself love, he revels in his hungry approbation. It is hot and dark and all for him. He walks his line, and Hannibal walks his own. 

Later, he discerns that his potential has been fulfilled. He has become what he always promised he might. And that is not someone to be trifled with. He is much more than a composition of wrath and suffering, kept as close as Hannibal can stand. His choices will be his own, and he is able to transform as much as be transformed.

Hannibal's method of breaking him is telling, and Will considers it at length. His instrument was chosen carefully, to rouse jealousy. He sought to anger by faking intimacy with another, someone lesser. Will imagines the result if he were to try the same tactic - the bloody carnage, and after, the knife pressed to his own throat. Hannibal would dine on his heart, raw, clothes still soaked in Will's blood. After that, even Will’s imagination fails him. Maybe he'll ask Hannibal, one day, what he would do.

It gives him hope.

*

Another night, and another engagement. This time, after the elevator door shuts behind them, there is a strange noise and a shuddering. It jerks once, violently, then halts.

Will is expecting this.

Neatly, before Hannibal can even pass him a glance, Will slams him forward into the elevator wall. Hannibal slides down in an untidy heap and Will settles in to wait.

*

When Hannibal blinks his eyes open, he touches his fingers to his head. There is no blood, only a large and swelling bruise. Will sees him taste his words before he speaks.

“I suppose this is your doing?” he says, casting a glance at the elevator controls. The alarm has been disabled, the panel hanging open.

Will is crouched opposite him. Neither of them move to get up.

“Why would I go to the trouble? Tell me that, Hannibal.”

There is a silence. Will watches him steadily, calm now he's embarked upon this course of action. They both should have known that they do not suit stasis. Change was inevitable.

Hannibal looks unsurprised, confirming Will's suspicions he's foreseen this. Maybe it will be a relief for them both.

Will uncurls slowly to sit, stretching out his legs. The space is not large, the tips of his shined shoes graze the opposite wall next to Hannibal. It is metal, chromed, highly polished but flecked a little with age. It helps maintain the ambience of elegant dissipation. 

Hannibal looks at his hands, folded in his lap, then raises his chin to speak with defiance. It's strangely childish, sulky almost. “You accepted it was your choice to kill. Have you changed your mind?”

Will can easily imagine him as a boy, at home, and at boarding school. Before and after. Awkward and odd, before he learned how to move through the world like a shark. They would have been friends as children, Will thinks. It winds something tight within him, a desire to see this through to the bitter end.

“My choices lie within increasingly narrow parameters,” Will says. “It's the parameters which have brought us to this moment. Not the killing.”

Something passes across Hannibal's face, something close to understanding. Will wants to call it shame.

“You got what you wanted, Hannibal. You got me. The question is, what are you going to do with me?”

Hannibal wets his lips, and tilts his head again. He looks as dangerous as ever. “Now, or later?” he says, mouth curling in a snarl, a show of promised vengeance.

Will smiles, and almost laughs. He slides a few inches forward and kneels, face close to Hannibal’s. “Whatever you choose will be your final decision on the matter.”

“Are you threatening to leave?” Hannibal asks, eyes glittering darkly. “Or kill me?”

“I don't know. I'm giving you an opportunity to not force me to do either.”

Hannibal pulls himself up to a stand, and just restrains himself from pacing. His restlessness is minimal, confined only to his shoulders. He turns his back, nonchalantly studying the useless doors, but watches Will over his shoulder.

“An ultimatum. Not very subtle.”

“Would you prefer I knife you and leave you to bleed out on the kitchen floor without a second glance?”

There is no response to this, only a flex of tension in Hannibal's jaw. Will, despite himself, feels pity. He moves near and places a hand on Hannibal's back, over his heart.

“All that time, you chased and pushed. Until we found ourselves here. This can’t be our ending.”

Hannibal pulls his eyes away from Will, and instead focuses on the floor. “It is the ending I am able to offer you.”

“No, it’s the line you will not cross.” Although Will knew this would be the answer he is still angry for it. “I’ve crossed enough for you. I have left behind everything.”

He steps closer, speaks soft and low in Hannibal’s ear. “I know you love me,” he accuses, and it feels like cruelty to wield his power in this way. It feels good. “Knowing is no longer enough. You owe me.”

“You have my love already,” Hannibal says. “We live together, sleep together, eat together. You have more than anyone ever has.”

“It is not enough and you know it. You suck the meaning out of every moment between us, and hide it away in your palace. You live with me in there but not _out here._ ” 

Will seizes his shoulders and spins him round, shoving him back into the doors. Hannibal does not resist, and remains where he has been thrown, almost casual in his acceptance of it. His eyes, though, burn and threaten, and Will’s heart rejoices. Today this terrible bloodless romance will end one way or another.

He interrupts Hannibal before he can reply. “At your behest, I have been sacrificed and reborn. In your mind you have built an altar to me.” Will crowds him, pressing him back against the wall, hands fisted in his shirt. There is no space left between them, and Hannibal does not move under the damp drag of Will’s lips over his own. “But you will worship me here, or not at all.”

Their breathing is ragged and growing louder, Hannibal’s reluctant arousal becoming apparent. Will’s grinds into it roughly, artlessly. He is in the mood to take, not persuade. He has given enough of himself to Hannibal and he wants everything which is his. All of it is his.

Hannibal is still undecided, part of him resistant even now. Will ignores it, slides his mouth over Hannibal’s, and pushes his tongue inside. He unfastens Hannibal’s jacket, and the shirt underneath, wants him undone and exposed. Flushed, Hannibal breathes heavily, lips parted, watching from under heavy lids. Like he’s just lost a fight.

Will grins coldly. Hannibal’s pants are unzipped and shoved aside. He flinches when Will closes his fingers around his cock, and lays it bare between them. He is hard, balls drawn up tight. Will thumbs the tip gently and watches it leak for him.

“On your knees,” he says, bringing out his own cock, stroking himself harshly. 

There is a moment where neither of them know what Hannibal will do. Then, slowly, he slinks down to kneel. Will grasps his hair and pulls his head back against the wall. His cock sways between them, almost brushing Hannibal’s lips.

Hannibal shuts his eyes, his mouth pressed into an unhappy line. “This is not what you want,” he says, and for the first time in a long while, he sounds sincere.

“Tell me what I want, then,” Will says, simply.

“You want me to love you. The way you should be loved.”

“And how is that?”

“Willingly. With adoration.” Hannibal opens his eyes. He bends to rest his forehead against Will’s thigh. When he speaks his words are forced, hot and damp, through Will’s pants to touch his skin. “With passion and wonder.”

Will runs his fingers through his hair. “You haven’t. You pulled away from me, many months ago.”

“Forgive me,” Hannibal says. “I could not. For you, I am weak.”

“Then let yourself be weak.” Will drags his fingertips over Hannibal’s face, along his brow, around his eyes and down to his mouth. He presses his thumb softly to his lips. “Love me, and find strength in me.”

Hannibal looks at him with doubt in his eyes.

Will smiles. “Have faith,” he says.

Sighing against him, Hannibal nods. 

“Not here,” Will says. “You will take me to bed. Our bed.”

*

The elevator is a simple matter. Will reconnects the controls and with the edge of a coin screws the panel shut. Then he crouches in front of the doors and removes his tie pin. He runs it down in between the doors, right into where they sit in their runners, sunk into the floor. It takes a few seconds for him to locate the wrap of paper he placed there earlier. The doors shudder gently when the paper is sliced through, and the elevator whirrs into life.

Hannibal watches all this unflinchingly, though with a put-upon air.

“I knew you did something to prevent the doors closing properly,” he says, pressing the button for the lift to go up, “but I couldn’t see what.”

In the minute it takes the lift to reach their floor, Will pays close attention to Hannibal. He has straightened his clothing, stitching himself partly back together. After all the effort Will has put in, he cannot allow this.

He presses himself to Hannibal’s back, and reaches around him to pluck his buttons undone once more. “Don’t forget your promise,” he says. “I won’t try again. I will just leave.”

He feels Hannibal relent, sagging back into him, as the doors open. Will pushes him forward, and together they stumble into their apartment. 

Once inside, Will sheds his own clothes efficiently, until he stands naked. Hannibal remains silent and breathlessly inert, as if waiting for a command. He follows when Will turns on his heel and makes for the bedroom. There, Will lays upon Hannibal’s bed, arms outstretched, waiting. When Hannibal kneels on the bed beside him, Will smiles benevolently. 

Hannibal bends to kiss his open palm, and Will cups his cheek. Hannibal leans into it, his head heavy against Will’s hand.

“I forgive you,” says Will.

He is adored, as Hannibal said he should be. Hannibal kisses him everywhere; each press of lips a conscious act of piety, a plea for worthiness. Hannibal mouths each scar, softly, humbly, and does not meet Will’s eyes until there no part of his body left untouched. His last act is to nose gently over his balls, and drag his lips along the length of his cock. He laps once at the tip, but restrains himself from anything more. Instead he lays his head on Will’s stomach, and waits.

“I forgive you,” Will says, again, closing his fist around Hannibal’s shirt and pulling him up towards him. 

Their mouths meet roughly, desperately, the heat and wetness of Hannibal’s open mouth is inflaming. Will pants for breath, and he reaches for Hannibal again, wrapping his legs around him to hold him down, writhing up against him. He stretches for the lube and presses it into Hannibal’s hand.

“Here. Do not make me wait any longer,” he says.

When Hannibal enters him this time, hurriedly with clothes rumpled and pushed aside, his face is not shuttered. Will sees how it hurts him, to feel so much, so deeply. How much he wants, how exposed he is for it.

“Yes,” Will gasps. “Don’t hide from me, let me see you. Show me.”

Hannibal moans atop him, as if in pain, and their thrusting is erratic, frantic. Hannibal’s breath is hot on his face, Will kisses away his tears and murmurs more forgivenesses. He holds Hannibal tight when he shudders into his neck, pleasure and warmth rolling through Will as his own cock pulses between them. 

The last thing he remembers that night is Hannibal crawling into his embrace, words of reverence and love on his lips.

*

The next morning, Hannibal does not rise early. Their routine is broken.

Will awakes in his arms, held carefully close. At peace, he shuts his eyes and considers that now he has it, Hannibal’s love will never let him go. It feels right, a bestowal. Like salvation.

He stirs and, knowing Hannibal is awake, asks, “How's your head?”

“It's been better,” Hannibal replies. 

Will turns to him. He is watching still, always watching. His eyes are warm, and Will places a hand on his chest. 

“And your heart?”

A twitch at the corner of his mouth. “It's been worse. I have faith it will improve.”

Will smiles, and is kissed good morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Massive thanks to lordofthelesbians for giving me the benefit of her excellent building facilities knowledge. Should you ever wish to trap your errant cannibal in a lift, the easiest way is to slide something between the doors so they can’t connect properly. A slip of paper will do, but you could also use a coin (though your cannibal boyfriend might spot this). The doors will stay shut but the lift will be confused and won't be able to move.
> 
> Come chat to me on [my tumblr](http://weconqueratdawn.tumblr.com/) if you'd like :)


End file.
